


Adrenaline Junkies

by elrhiarhodan



Category: Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-22
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 08:06:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets angry about Sherlock's love of danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adrenaline Junkies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [traintracks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/traintracks/gifts).



They were running, chasing after the villain. Through rain slicked streets framed by posh houses and monuments to wealth and the British Empire. This was like that first night, when John simply abandoned his cane to follow Sherlock, leaping and dodging, through alleys and side streets and buildings. That time, it had been a private game. Sherlock proving to him in five minutes what the psychologists couldn’t do in years – that his disability was all in his head.  
  
But this time, it wasn’t a game. The danger was real. There was a knife, shining bright red under a neon light. It looked too much like fresh blood. The man laughed and lunged at Sherlock, who danced back, laughing too. Except that Sherlock tripped and the man raised that knife and went for his throat.  
  
It never landed. John tackled the bastard, the knife flew out of his hand and the Met finally caught up with them.  
  
John held out a hand to Sherlock and helped him up. But Sherlock didn’t let go, his palm an electric connection. There was a wild look in his eyes and he knew what that meant. Sherlock was high – not on drugs, but on the danger.  
  
And that made John a little crazy. He dragged Sherlock back to Baker Street and frog-marched him up the stairs, pushing him into the flat. They stood in the middle of the living room, staring at each other. Sherlock was smiling, his eyes still a little wild, but they were focused on him, now.  
  
Sherlock doffed his coat and dropped into his chair, his long fingers resting on his thighs. John just couldn’t look away.  
  
“Don’t be angry.”  
  
“You could have been killed.”  
  
Sherlock whispered, “I know. But I wasn't.”  
  
“You’re a fucking adrenaline junkie.” John shouted. He was beyond fury.  
  
Sherlock just gave him that twisted Mona Lisa smile. “Are you surprised?”  
  
John closed his eyes and tried to find some semblance of control. “It makes me crazy – you know that. I couldn’t bear it if …” He bit his lip, he didn’t want to say it, he didn’t want to reveal that much.  
  
“You won’t lose me. I’d never let that happen. Not again.”  
  
He could hear Sherlock’s sincerity, but he couldn’t trust it. In fact, he couldn’t bear to be in the same room with him right now.  
  
“John.”  
  
He kept walking.”  
  
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::  
  
The rain pelted his bedroom window, the rat-tat-tat not unlike the sounds of distant gunfire. That didn’t bother him anymore. He had other nightmares now. Sherlock falling. Knives. Bombs. Guns. Even a passing car, the driver more concerned with updating his Facebook status than about the pedestrians in the street.  
  
All dangers, all things that would take Sherlock away from him. And Sherlock himself, always seeking the danger, getting high from it, getting off on it.  
  
John tossed off the covers and stood at the window, watching the rain fall, the lights from the passing cars making dark rainbows on the pavement.  
  
He couldn’t keep Sherlock safe, he understood that. Sherlock was a grown man, and he had a definite predilection for danger. If he didn’t, he simply wouldn’t be Sherlock. He’d be ordinary.  
  
Well, maybe _ordinary_ was the wrong adjective, because he’d still have those same intellectual gifts, that knife-edge impatience, that well-deserved sense of superiority. No – Sherlock would never be ordinary, he just wouldn’t be extraordinary. He’d be …  
  
Startled, John paused in his train of thought then laughed.  
  
Sherlock, without his love of danger, would be Mycroft.  
  
 _Ugh._  
  
He turned away from the window and thought about getting a hot drink. Or maybe a scotch. Or maybe a combination of both. Instead, he decided to go back to bed, it was close to three and he was supposed to be taking a shift tomorrow. He had forgotten how bad nights like this were, when he was hyped up from battle. Too wired to sleep, too tired to do anything else.  
  
 _But not too tired for that._  
  
Yeah. Never too tired for that. He stripped off his pajamas and stretched out on the bed. Afghanistan taught him to be an efficient wanker, but there was no reason not to enjoy himself. It was unlikely that anything was going to explode in the next ten minutes.  
  
Provided that Sherlock was asleep.  
  
In Afghanistan, he didn’t fantasize. Wanking had been a way to reduce stress, help him get to sleep. It wasn’t about sex at all, more like the old Victorian treatment for hysteria. But he couldn’t stop the fantasy now, and of course it featured the person most on is mind.  
  
Sherlock.  
  
John pulled on himself, and thought about Sherlock. That quick-fire smile, the effortless intellect, his mouth.  
  
He saw Sherlock as he was tonight, running through the streets, running into danger and he got as hard as an iron bar. In his fantasy, Sherlock dodged knife thrusts after knife thrust and always came back for more.  
  
John watched himself watching, never interfering, just waiting for the moment when Sherlock was victorious. When he could take him in his arms, hold him close and lick the sweat off his cheeks.  
  
Sherlock would laugh and maybe pull him into a dark alley, press him against the wall. The police would be just yards away, and he could see the lights from the cars reflecting in the puddles.  
  
He’d smile and whisper, “You want this, John. You get off on it.” He’d drop to his knees and press his face against John’s hard cock, mouthing in through his trousers.  
  
John’s fist worked faster and faster, his other hand gripping the sheets, trying to slow down, trying to savor the moment. But it was no good. The fantasy wouldn’t stop; it was out of his control.  
  
Sherlock had his pants opened and the night air, cold and damp, should have tempered his lust, but the voices from the street; the men and women he knew, the strangers passing by, the danger of exposure was a goad. Sherlock’s mouth, hot and wet and skilled, his tongue like an evil whip, drove him into a frenzy. He bit his lip. The taste of blood was the final lash and he came.  
  
Semen splashed on his belly and John opened his eyes. He wasn’t standing in a dirty alley; Sherlock wasn’t on his knees, looking up at him with delight and approval. But he wasn’t in Afghanistan either. He was in his bedroom in Baker Street, and Sherlock was safe in his own bed on the other side of the flat.  
  
And that was good enough.  
  
 _FIN  
_


End file.
